


This is about you

by regsregis



Category: Borderlands (Video Games), Tales from the Borderlands - Fandom
Genre: Badass Rhys, M/M, Mafia AU, and then they secks it up, basically the story goes like this, canon typical violence although its fairly mellow, mentions of the use of drugs, thats it thats the story, this is super self indulgent and i cant recall the last time i had this much fun writing something, two jerks need to work around their mutual disdain as they get into troubles, you should know me by now this story is more comedy than anything else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-09-26 21:09:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9922178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regsregis/pseuds/regsregis
Summary: From tumblr prompts:http://space-detention.tumblr.com/ :What about something about jack being part of the mafia and one day there's this new family that comes up and of course guess who's the leader :-)





	1. Meaning of fun

**Author's Note:**

> you will pry hispanic Jack from my cold, dead hands  
> also, my spanish is hella rusty so sorry if its' awkward sometimes.  
> there's also some dumb art at my tumblr http://visnomer.tumblr.com/tagged/mafia-au :^)

Clicking his tongue in contempt he shuffles through a stack of photos.

“That’s what the hype’s all about these days? They look like a bunch of kids.”

“Boss… they got our people at the off-site roughed up pretty good…”

“Blake, you tell me something I don’t know yet and I may consider not shooting you in the foot right about… NOW!” A gunshot rings in the empty room and the sharply dressed man ducks, indignant squelch escaping him as the shot barely misses a well shined loafer. “Have your wits decided to follow your receding hairline? I need names. Numbers. I need people to kill dum dum.”

With a choked ‘right away sir’, the man scrambles to his feet and nearly skips towards the door, chased by even more threats.  
Left alone in his office, Jack sits back, head lolling to a side as he quietly fumes, looking over the photos once again. The angle is awkward and he figures his people took the shots from a fair distance, not wanting to be spotted and busted. The center figure on all of them is a tall woman, dressed to a tee in something that looks far too expensive for a small town gangster, dreadlocks pulled in a loose bun at the nape of her neck and sunglasses perched atop her head. She’s always surrounded by a flock of nondescript heavies and a hunched man at her heels with a briefcase clutched in his hands.  
All he has so far is the name of the family. Atlas. Personally, Jack considers it a really fucking stupid name and just thinking about it brings a scowl to his lips. As far as he knows, they are in the business of clubs, prostitution and drugs. He wouldn’t have half minded if the drugs weren’t -his- goddamn department. And the competition already seems to be taking toll on his sales if the financial reports are to be believed. As they usually are.

It takes a couple more days and a few more bumps between their men for Jack to finally decide to investigate the matter himself. Rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt he steps out of the car, two bodyguards on each of his sides and his eyes move up to an ornate sign lazily swinging above the door. ‘The cupcake’. His stomach churns at the cliche name. The place is stylish, a mix of old-fashioned and modern and seems to serve mostly hot beverages and pastries. As far as he knows you can also grab yourself something off the menu too, if you know just who to talk to. But he’s not here for any of those, plopping himself by the largest table and the cafe clears out in a matter of seconds once the locals catch a whiff of his presence.

“Irish and whoever runs this shit-show. Chop-chop.” The waiter doesn’t even need to open his mouth and once the order is set, the poor guy does a one eighty to rush back towards the kitchen.  
Shrugging off his leather jacket, he sinks a little lower on the chair, ankle crossed over his knee, whole posture reflecting casual confidence as he idly keeps playing with the gun he left out in the open, laying on the table.

“So, how’s the coffee?” The woman from the photos takes a seat across the table. She sure as hell took her sweet time and he’s already halfway through the tall glass, luscious, heavy aftertaste of Bailey’s sticking to his tongue and the subtle tinge of quality whiskey prickling the back of his throat. The roast itself is also prime quality, filtered and light enough to not overpower the smooth spirits.

“Not bad.” Yeah, in reality it’s really fucking good. He takes another sip, scanning the place with his eyes, peeking over the sunglasses that have slid halfway down the bridge of his nose. The waiter who brought him the drink can now be seen through the kitchen door left ajar talking to a tall man, virtually a kid, barely in his twenties and when their eyes briefly meet, he has to wonder if that’s the barista who prepped his coffee if the sudden interest is anything to go by. “The name’s Jack. Handsome Jack. And so you know, I don’t take kindly to competition.”

She nods and he figures she probably already knew that.

“Yvette. I’ll be handling whatever complaints you may have in regards to our operations.”

“Oh don’t you be playing coy with me cariño. I want this cupcake deal out of my city, pronto.” Setting down his glass, Jack gives the woman a long hard stare. He hates beating around the bush, his time too precious to be just wasted like that.  
The answer he basically gets is a big fat ‘no’ with a dash of ‘fuck you’ on top, dressed in curt if polite words. Not that he expected anything else but it still leaves him seething. Yvette drives a hard bargain and he figures there isn’t much room for work here. He’ll just have to wipe Atlas from his city entirely. Or overtake them. Whatever works best although he’s leaning slightly towards the latter option because of the divine coffee. He leaves with a neatly packed gift the barista passes to him via the waiter with a friendly if utterly fake politeness, some of their ‘home made’ sweets apparently, wrapped in plain paper and with a golden ribbon on top.

-II-

Jack kinda regrets chucking the pastries into a trash can just outside of ‘the Cupcake’ as he thumbs through a pile of documents on Atlas his people have managed to put together, hunger making his stomach growl. The family has a long-lived, cherished tradition of back stabbing and betrayal. The previous head, Hugo Vasquez as the documents helpfully supply, has been screwed over in some kind of a fraud deal, Vasquez having previously outright murdered Henderson who ran the family for a good couple of years after getting his predecessor sold out to the feds and so on and so on. However, there’s precious little about Yvette and here tightly knit circle of supporters which isn’t much of a surprise given that they seized the power a couple of days prior to moving to this city. For all he knows they are a bunch of blind puppies running in circles and trying to figure things out after a successful coup. But the people working for Yvette aren’t and he can see it in the constantly dropping sales rates. It’s not only that they are a competition, a damn good competition, but they also like to play dirty, small petty things such as setting one of his warehouses on fire. And whenever their people run into each other, there’s always bloodshed, forcing him to dish out hefty sums of money to keep it all under wraps.

-II-

Weeks pass and he grows borderline murderous, unable to wrap his head around Atlas’ sudden success on the market. He’s currently venting his frustration, beating the everliving shit out of an unfortunate junkie who just happens to owe his people some money. Quite a lot of money in fact, and money they could really use in this situation.

“Sir… no I...ahh I’m sorry!” His fist connects with the kid’s face and he can hear the satisfying crunch of a nose breaking “I had the money I swear…!”

“Oh yeah?” He’s shaking him by a fistful of hair all the while digging his heel into this little shit’s hand, broken fingers splayed on the concrete floor. “So what happened to them?”

“P-Pandora! I uh… dropped by and they sucked me out of my last penny!” That catches his attention as he grabs the kid by the scruff on his neck, pulling him to his knees, mildly curious to hear the undoubtedly tear-jerking story

“Oh? Tell me about it kiddo.”

“I...sir, Handsome Jack sir, I might have uhh… stopped for a short while to nab a shot, you know, to get my spirits high, but then there were all the body shots and the staff and ahhh…” Jack is positively seething with rage, his knee catching that blubbering idiot in the chest and he crumbles to the ground. So instead of tear-jerking there was only jerking around. It’s not the first time he has heard of Pandora. A new, hip place where you can get nearly everything and willing bodies are aplenty or so he has heard. Run by Atlas no less. He has to wonder how they could pull that shit off without alerting the authorities but he suspects it may have something to do with the mayor’s son being a hopeless case when it comes to sex and booze.

-II-

Running his hand through his perfectly styled hair, Jack takes one last look at himself in the mirror, a simple button up shirt, slacks and his favourite suspenders, everything nicely hugging the curve of his body. Sweet. He’s looking hella fine and is positively boiling underneath, ready to step into enemy’s lair and see for himself what all the rage’s about.

He encountered the first problem at the entrance when the bouncer refused to let him in. Apparently there is a strict no sneakers code here and he hates Pandora that little bit more. It takes some coercion on his end, and someone from the inside messaging the hulking gorilla at the front door to let Jack in.

The place is fucking huge. Blue and pink LEDs lighting it up, to his left he can see a dancefloor, to his right private booths and loosely scattered tables. In front of him there is a massive beast of a double storey bar. It certainly is impressive. Not to mention full to the brim as it looks like half of the city’s barely-legal population is here. Two of the accompanying him men scatter, their task clear, scouting and gathering intel. Jack on the other hand, finds himself a free spot to the side, sending one of his remaining henchmen to grab him a drink. Slowly he starts singling out the personnel from the pulsing mass. They all are wearing similar outfits, off center and mismatched, light blue sleeveless button up shirts, left side striped the other plain, an arrangement of either shorts, skirts or longer pants, this time right side patterned. And gloves. Here, there are no exceptions. The staff mostly takes care of the drinks but quite often, he sees them leading clients into the booths or even leaving with them completely. Guess there are no limits on what you can get here.

Altogether the place wouldn’t be so bad if it didn’t cost him a major cut in the profit. Not in the mood for company he waves a busty chick and then a smiling redhead with arms like a dream off and they disappear in the crowd stalking some more willing prey.

Another two, unnecessarily flashy drinks down and he’s slowly changing his attitude when something that’s 70% legs moves in the corner of his eye. Nice. Motioning for one of his men to get a move he soon has the sweet thing sat across him. The boy is fairly tall, vaguely familiar dark hair slicked back and unlike most of the staff his shirt has long sleeves, slacks covering lanky legs and he’s shooting Jack a curious look, thick eyebrows quirked, the corner of his lips tilted ever so slightly.

“You workin’ long hours today kiddo?” He needs to keep his voice raised to be heard over the blasting music and he doesn’t miss the surprise blooming in two mismatched eyes.

“Might be…” The surprise is quickly gone as the kid graces him with a cheeky glance from under lowered lashes. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Could always be better… tell me kiddo, ever wondered how it would be to work under someone -else-?” Jack drawls his vowels and rolls his r’s, always a flirt and never the bore.

“You’ve no idea handsome…”

“Call me Jack, just tonight chiquito. You?”

“However you feel like calling me.... Jack.” The word slips from the kid’s lips and it sounds like honey, making something inside of him stir, his prey going toe to toe with Jack’s own flirt. He idly wonders if the drinks weren’t spiked. Or maybe it’s just the atmosphere of the place getting to him but when it’s sex on the line he isn’t going to bother trying to work out which one it was.

“Alright sweet cheeks, how about this, you keep me company tonight, we get to know each other...better, you tell me all the ins and outs of this place and I’ll consider not firing you once I get my handsome hands on Pandora, deal?” The alcohol is making him a little bit more straight forward but to hell with that.

“Oh?” Those plump lips spread in a soft smile, eyebrows inching higher.

“Yeah… gonna bring that bitch Yvette and here fanclub down. No one challenges Handsome Jack on his turf!” He receives a starry-eyed look as the kid leans his cheek against his palm, whole body turned towards him and clearly willing.

“Tell me about it, boss.”

-II-  
In hindsight maybe he shouldn’t have. But regret will come later, right now however, they are back at his place and he can’t keep his hands off the goods, grabbing handfuls of plush flesh and biting down onto the intricate designs of the kid’s tattoos. He barely bothers getting rid of any of their clothes, hiking up the blue shirt and running his hands down the expanses of the kid’s arched back. There is a move to brush their lips together, which is met with an angry snap of his teeth.

“I don’t -kiss- guapo.” To which he only gets a nonchalant shrug and then he’s being dragged by his suspenders towards the bed, inhibitions gone and he just -knows- it’s going to be so much fun.

His lay of the night is full of cheeky grins, bashful glances and encouraging soft words murmured in his ear as Jack feverishly promises him freedom from Atlas’ possessive grasp, maybe a place at his side and so much more than he could ever imagine. At some point Jack has to wonder if he’s dealing with a professional sex worker, ready to whisper sweet nothings into his ears, or if it’s him who can make the kid come undone like this, his ego choosing the latter option. Regardless, soft moans and coy blushes he’s wringing out of his prey seal the deal for him.

It turns out there isn’t much info he can get out of the kid, no locations when he growls his demands, no names slipped between sighs, and no important figures whispered against his skin but he still considers the night to be fairly fruitful. Particularly when he gets a facefull of ass and an indication to pin the other man’s left hand down. For a moment he stops to admire his handiwork, scratches criss-crossing tattooed back, and he tightens his grip on the still gloved wrist, kid’s other arm tucked under his heaving chest as he arches his back down, a little wiggle of his butt given to spur Jack on.

And then he plows the kid like there is no tomorrow.

-II-

Flopping down on his back, Jack watches the kid gather himself, hair tousled, eyes glazed and with pink lips parted he’s a work of art. He excuses himself to the bathroom and soon emerges back, clothes fixed in place and face slightly damp.

“Looking forward to getting to know you better -Jack-.”

“Same kiddo.” He lazily tosses a bundle of cash, neatly rolled and secured with a rubber band “You ever feel like ditching your employer for someone more handsome, you know where to find me. There might be some extra for your trouble too. For now, keep the change.” The kid catches the bundle and only arches one eyebrow, shit-eating smirk tugging the corner of his lips up.

“Will do handsome.” And with a shot from his finger gun mister luxurious ass is gone.

-II-

It takes his men full three days to figure out they have been bugged. Jack crushes the small device they have found snuggly tucked in his collar in his hand and hisses. He’s out for blood and revenge.

Currently sat at the back seat of his limo and watching the city lights through dimmed windows he nearly startles when the phone rings.

“Sir… we’ve got a ...ahh situation.”

“What situation? Spit it out you idiot.” The situation turns out to be his rivals currently raiding one of his largest warehouses. A barked command has his driver step on the breaks as the car takes a wide swerve to head for the new destination, his arms coming up to cross over broad chest, a pinched expression deepening the deeper crease between his brows.

There is only five of them excluding the driver as they quietly move in through the back door after quickly dispatching the Atlas’ guard positioned just outside. Taking the higher route, they move across the top ledge and over to the central area. He spots Yvette, of course, ordering people around as they scramble about, moving crates and packages. -His- crates and packages. With -his- weapons and -his- years-worth of cocaine supply for the whole city.

“Rhys, you sure about this? We’re dealing here with a murderous maniac. That ain’t Vasquez, he’s far more seasoned than either of us.” He can hear her talking with someone just around the corner and damn right she’s fucking right about him. Especially the ‘murderous’ part.

“Positive. Chill Yvette, everyone can be broken. No matter their reputation.”

Brandishing a gun and his trusted bat in each hand, Jack motions for his people to move as they drop down from the ledge, two of them moving to take Yvette’s bodyguards down. In the meantime, the advantage of surprise on his side, he grabs that bitch and slams his fist into the side of her face.

“I don’t usually hurt women... god who am I even kidding, of course I -do- hurt women, anyway, you see… you -really- had that coming cariño.” More people dash into the room but they skid to a halt spotting their boss held at a gunpoint. She rubs her hand over the side of her jaw, eyes burning with hatred as she keeps eyeing him warily, uncertain gaze darting between his gun and the bat.

“Now if everybody was so kind as to cooperate. Drop your weapons and get the fuck out of my property. No, no no, you are staying down bitch.” He’s positively gloating, scenarios of how he’s gonna get his revenge running through his head. Oh it’s so glorious that another voice entering this one-sided conversation barely catches his attention.

“You may want to rethink that.” His eyes shoot up to meet a mismatched stare and a familiar crooked grin. Shit. Plush butt. Except everything about him is different. He’s donning dark grey slacks and a vest on top of an obnoxiously orange button up and… wait… really? A fucking cape. Draped over his left shoulder and flowing down below his knees. Jack’s so flabbergasted he lowers his gun slightly, mouth hanging slightly open.

“Rhys!”

“Yv, you good there?” 

Distracted as he is, the next thing his brain registers is blooming pain in his leg. She kicked him! Fucking decked him right into his shin and right now she’s getting up, nonchalantly fixing her skirt. He’s going to kill her good.

“Uh-huh. I wouldn’t advise that…” Before he can raise his weapon again the voice stops him and he follows brown and blue eyes now trained on his chest. His chest upon which three red points are now dancing. Snipers. Fun-fucking-tastic.

“Yv, be a dearie and make sure boys finish packing ASAP.” Plush butt speaks again, his tone commanding but still flippant in its arrogance. She nods and motions for people to get moving. And on top of that his one night stand turns out to apparently be running Atlas or at the very least pulling Yvette’s strings. There is so much pent up rage inside of him Jack swears there must be steam coming out of his ears. He’s going to bash that stupid face in, luxurious assets or not.

“As long as I breath you will not get to run this city shithead.” He nearly spats watching the kid prowl closer, fingers curling tighter over both of his weapons and he can can barely restrain his need to wipe the smirk from the other’s mouth.

“Yeah, yeah, you’ve already told me that, -Jack-.” The way he drawls the last word nearly makes Jack faint from pure anger. Which is only amplified when the lanky man has the audacity to move into his personal space, height difference noticeable for the first time, and then he fishes out a rolled up bundle of money from his pocket and tucks it into the strap of Jack’s suspenders. 

“Keep the change.”

It IS personal.

“Boss?” Another voice cuts in “...we’ve got cops coming in.”

“Okay, scatter up people.” The other man is all business now, pulling back with a wink and follows it a finger gun shot. Jack only replies with a finger running across his throat. They’ll have to finish this some other day.


	2. Put on your warpaint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

He got assassins hired. The real deal, high-end hitmen. He got his people spread rumours about shady deals going down in Pandora. Slander. Arson. Outright murder. He had done all of those things and Atlas is still going strong. And the fact that they have quite effectively swayed some of -their- people to abandon Jack and join them simply took the cake.

Blake keeps running in blind circles, outdoing his pathetic self to somehow placate his boss and bring order to the mayhem. Despite his best efforts none of those things are enough and Jack’s ever growing bad mood has people avoiding him like fire, until one night when he just disappears. It’s not rare for him to go out there and get his hands dirty but it -is- rare that he would move without his escort. Especially considering that tonight is the night they are to make their final push, people restless and brimming with negative energy, the arrangements set in motion some weeks prior and a carefully prepared trap laid out. Their plan virtually boils down to drawing the bulk of Atlas’ men out to a remote location, Jack’s boastful proclamations and challenges steadily chucked at the rival family for the past week intended to only spur them on, all the while a small force would deal with, hopefully, unguarded Pandora, setting up explosive charges and incriminating materials to pass the blame for getting Mayor’s son killed onto Atlas. Eventually boss’ right hand decides to leave Jack be, whatever he’s up to, and simply proceed with the plan during his absence, an offer of an uneasy alliance still there at the back of his mind.

-II-

The sweet scent of baked goods, mixed with the tang of roasted coffee make his nostrils flare as he moves undetected through the dark space. ‘The cupcake’ is clearly closed for the night, tables cleaned and chairs upturned but the place is not deserted. Not if his intel was right, and if it wasn’t… there’s going to be blood for making him waste his precious time on this particular day. Through the kitchen and past the pantry a distant flicker of light leads him deeper into the building, and the eery quietness makes the hairs on his bare arms bristle. Somehow Jack expected more people to be here but so far he has spotted a lone bodyguard, telltale orange shirt with a spiteful logo indicating where he allegiance laid. Now however, the man belongs to the afterlife thanks to a slit throat, blood pooling around the still body. Stalking closer to the half open door he slings his baseball bat across his shoulders, neon pink letters gleaming in the darkness, as Jack virtually melts into the shadows, patiently waiting for the right moment to make his entrance all the more dramatic.  
A couple of minutes later the indication comes in the form of a far-off thunder of an explosion and the rough scratch of a chair dragged across the floor following, his prey no doubt springing to his feet. Emerging from the shadows Jack swings the door open, mismatched eyes quickly taking stock of his surroundings, a small office with a leather chair behind a wooden desk, stacks of paper piled on the floor and tall cabinets filled with books. As far as a mob leaders’ offices go this one is far from impressing. But he's not here for the views but for the mob leader in question, standing by the desk and leaning on his hands against the wooden surface, slitted eyes fixed on the intruder. Spotting the mismatched gaze flicking to his side in search of the now-dead bodyguard he lets a toothy grin split his lips.

“Here kitty kitty, no one’s coming to save you.” His tone is sing song as the pleasant feeling of finally getting the upper hand fills him. “Your buddy out there made the loveliest gurgling sounds as I slit his throat.” Jack can’t help an even wider grin when the other man’s expression turns grim.

“Figured you wouldn’t show up for the fireworks I prepped for you but see… I’m a really generous guy so I wanted to pass the good news to you myself.” And maybe vent his pent up frustration when he’s at it, nothing quite as satisfying as seeing dread worm its way onto his enemies’ faces, last shreds of hope escaping them with their dying breaths and chased with every swing of his bat.

“Get out before I call the cops asshole…”

“Oh cupcake, I bet they are already on their way to get you. You know… I bet the Major ain’t gonna be happy when he hears that Pandora went down in flames. As did his unfortunate son... “ Jack tsks in fake grief, shaking his head and stalking closer as he watches with satisfaction the last of the colour drain from the other man’s face “... they might arrest you for now but I’ve heard the Major is quite the vengeful person…”

“What did you DO?” There is fire burning in those pretty eyes and Jack couldn’t be more proud of himself. By now they are nearly face to face, the only barrier being the desk between them and when he spots the other man trying to make a move, presumably for a gun he must be keeping somewhere close, he unceremoniously drives his knife through the man’s still gloved right hand, effectively pinning him to the desk. He doesn’t have the time to register any lack of response when the door swings wide open again.

“Drop your weapons, hands up! Both of you!” A young man, dressed in a familiar blue uniform dashes in, gun hesitantly swinging between pointing at either of them. With a shit eating grin Jack moves to a side, a curt bow given as he presents his prey to the policeman, arms half heartedly raised. The newcomer hastily grabs his walkie talkie and there is a brief crack of static before he starts reporting.

“Ma’am I’ve got Atlas and Handsome Jack in my sights. At ‘the Cupcake’ over.”

“Roger that. ETA 5 minutes. We’re bringing them in for questioning but we’ve got a green light to shoot to kill if there’s an escape attempt over.” Wait, something doesn’t sound right, why would they need both of them. And why shoot to kill. Jack’s eyes swing wildly from the young policeman to his nemesis nervously eyeing him, one arm obediently raised.

“Aye aye ma’am.” The comm cracks again with static and the cop’s eyes take a wide sweep of the room finally settling on the tall brunet.

“Hands up! You deaf jackass?” His voice is slightly shaking as he yells the command again, gun now trained on Atlas’ boss and Jack realizes the kid is scared shitless, left alone in a room with two potentially very dangerous criminals as he keeps repeating his words, voice now reaching higher notes.

“Hey, hey…” He moves slightly to take a step closer to the desk, his own hands held in the air in a non-threatening gesture. “... we’re good kiddo… see, my friend here is in a little bit of a predicament…” Young policeman’s eyes finally focus on the knife still pinning the man he’s holding at a gunpoint and he flinches when the realization dawns on him “...let me help him… nice and easy…” His voice is calming and when he’s motioned with the tip of the gun to reach for the knife he moves slowly, keeping both of his hands visible. Meeting brown and blue stare, which is surprisingly impassive given the state of his palm, Jack blindly reaches for the handle, fingers wrapping around it leisurely. Eyes fixed on his briefly flicker to the man behind them before returning and there’s the tiniest quirk of one dark eyebrow. Yeah, he knows what the other man is trying to communicate. With one swift motion he pulls the blade, letting the impact carry his hand as he turns around, handle slipping from his hand, propelled by the extra force he put into the movement and then the knife plunges itself into the middle of the unlucky policeman’s forehead.

In the heart-beat of silence that follows the dull thud of a body hitting the floor they share a hard stare and a growl but then a distant sound of sirens spurs them on, both men scattering in different directions with Jack heading for the front door, briefly stopping to pluck the knife from the dead man’s head, and his enemy towards the back of the facility.  
He skids to a stop spotting policemen and what appears to be special forces crowding in front of ‘the Cupcake’ and making a sharp turn, runs back towards the kitchen. He vaults over the countertop dropping to a crouch only to run into the other man again, huddled in the corner and holding for dear life onto a pan. One of his eyebrows inches a little bit higher in a snarky disbelief.

“Get lost.” It’s hissed at him, barely audible over the ruckus outside the place, someone talking over a loudspeaker. Given that they are both now hiding in the kitchen he figures the back entrance has been secured as well. Peeking around the corner he nearly misses the movement as his unfortunate companion sneakily tries to crawl away on his hands and knees.

“Nu-huh guapo, we’re going down together.” His fingers wrap like a vice around the kid’s ankle in an attempt to drag him back.

“Let GO!” His prey tries to kick back eventually freeing himself and scrambling to his feet as SWAT begin pouring in. Jack isn’t going to be left behind and he makes a mad dash after the running kid, down the hallway and to the pantry. That doesn’t look like the best hiding spot until the other man makes a grab for one of the shelves and it effortlessly moves to the side revealing a narrow space behind, filled with small packages. Shoving the taller man away Jack tries squeezing in, cursing all the way as they both fight for priority.

“You’re not going to fit!”

“Go to hell!”

“You go to hell!”

Footsteps are closing in and it’s sheer panic that finally makes them cooperate, eventually the shelf is pulled back, complete darkness enveloping them as they shuffle to rearrange themselves to the best of their abilities. It’s a tight fit, a really, really tight fit, both men pressed chest to chest, legs tangled and when they simultaneously take a deeper breath the space turns suffocating. Voices outside of their hiding spot make them hold their breaths even as the dust fills their noses threatening to trigger a sneeze.   
Only when they slightly die out does Jack finally take his surroundings in, noting with annoyance something painfully digging into his calf.

“Move.” He hisses but it’s only met with a disgusted snort. Not like there’s any place for movement here but eventually the other man shuffles slightly, nudging some of the packages until he can step on them, now towering over Jack even more. At least the slot of their bodies becomes more bearable, although he finds himself with his face pressed to the kid’s chest he breaths a little bit easier, his own chest expanding against the flat of the other man’s belly.

“Wouldn’t have pegged you for a snuggler…” The word is cut out as Jack’s hand shoots up to press over that stupid, talkative mouth and he shushes him hearing someone pass their hiding spot.  
They stay like that, freezing with every louder noise and as time passes Jack grows even more acutely aware of the proximity. When there’s a lull in the conversations he’s trying to overhear the only sound filling his ears is a slowly steadying thud of a heart and he can feel soft lips brushing against the inside of his palm, puffs of air the kid exhales through his nose tickling the hair at the back of Jack’s hand. He can pick up the warmth of another body and vaguely familiar scent of sweat and expensive aftershave, his thoughts idly drifting towards how the man felt -under- him. Seems like his mind isn’t the only one that began to stray and when he shifts slightly, something that wasn’t there before pressing against his own stomach, there’s a hitch to the other’s breath.

“... heh, proximity.” Like that word could explain everything and he simply nods in response to an awkward cough. He can roll with that, chalking up his own body’s reaction to it. It’s better that way because he still needs to wrap his hands around that tattoed throat. Uneasy minutes turn to hours as the police continue with their sweep, apparently having given up on looking for them, now simply rummaging through whatever they can find stashed in the rooms behind the kitchen.  
The small space they are crowding grows uncomfortably hot with their shared body heat only adding to their misery, and by now he’s simply slumped against his companion, legs aching and when he cranes his neck, vertebrae popping, that idiotic fur lining this idiot’s idiotic idiot cape of idiocy tickles his nose. When Jack raises his hand to scratch the itch away his fingers bump into hard metal that should definitely not be there, slung at the kid’s right side. Curiosity picked, he investigates further finding out that his entire right arm is plated.

“Ya got there an armour?” He can’t believe the sheer stupidity of it but whispers his question regardless.

“Wish that was the case…” There’s something off about the arm, wrist too thin and as he slips the glove from the kid’s hand his fingers find hydraulic joints and a jagged edge running along the center of his palm, exactly where his knife pierced it before. Which explains the unflinching reaction he got back then.

“I kinda liked this one, thanks for ruining it asshole.” Prosthetic fingers twitch but he suspects that’s about it given the damage to the wires. Jack only hums in response, lost in his thoughts.

“Wondering how you did not notice before?” In fact yeah, he is. “You are an easy man to play, especially when your dick takes charge. You jump to conclusions way too quickly.” He growls, knife in one hand now pressing between heaving ribs and most probably drawing some blood if the strangled yelp is anything to go by.

“I could kill you right now.” It’s met with a snort and he actually wonders why he can’t force his hand to move those few inches. Maybe the fluttering heartbeat against his cheek is just too delightful or maybe the company of a slowly cooling down corpse isn’t all that appealing.  
Half an hour and two ears intently pressed to the door later they figure that the place is now empty. They slowly detangle from the jumble of limbs and pushing the hidden door open Jack steps outside, stretching with a sigh. His eyes slowly adjust to the brightness as he watches the kid emerge, rubbing a hand over his face, strands of hair sticking in every direction and bags under his eyes. Then he lets his gaze settle finally on their hiding spot and his eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“That’s mine!” For the past couple of hours they’ve been crammed in the small space together with a stash of -his- cocaine, the one Atlas stole not long ago.  
Quietly seething with rage Jack ignores a nonchalant shrug he receives.

“So, what now?” And then the kid has the audacity to ask him what now. Jack suddenly remembers why he got here in the first place and stalks closer, spinning the knife in his hand, his anger ignited all over now that the imminent danger is gone. But then he halts hesitantly as a low rumble sounds in the empty room. The other man now protectively holding his stupid pan to his chest shoots him an apologetic smile.

“Breakfast first, murder later?”

-II-  
On their way out they need to duck under the yellow police tape and then Jack breaks into a light jog wanting to be as far from this place as he can, his companion lagging behind considerably but all in all following after him.

Catching a ride they end up at a remotely located diner and he watches the kid wolf down a giant stack of pancakes, he has to give it to him, he’s pretty handy, pardon the pun, with using just one arm and not drawing any attention to it. Had he not known, the chances of noticing it are slim. Idly pushing about remaining fries on his own plate he goes over the events of the night. It was going fine until the cops turned on him and he just can’t wrap his head around how it had happened. Had his men been caught? They fear him more than the devil himself so he largely doubts any of them would dare saying something incriminating. Which only leaves one other option. Third party, someone from the outside must have intervened.

His train of thoughts is stopped when he spots someone stopping by their table, a badge fixed to the belt and his eyes slowly move to take in the whole figure, running along blue tattoos sneaking up an arm before finally arriving at two green eyes narrowed to slits and an asymmetrical haircut, red hair framing a pale face. Shit.

“You two really gave me a run for my money.” His fingers instinctively curl around the bat he still has at his side and he can see from the corner of his eyes the other man tightening his grip on his silly weapon of choice. “Nearly a decade of chasing the rabbit and you finally slip. Nicely done Jack.” She sneers and motions for the group of other cops to circle them.

“Lilith. Charming as always.”

“You two are under arrest. Under the following charges. Arson. Endangerment of human life. Murder of an officer.” Lilith keeps reciting before moving onto their rights, stressing the right to remain silent and following it with a barked command to have them handcuffed.

“See you’re keeping Moxxi well cared for.” While his companion struggles, refusing to release the grip he has on his pan, Jack drops his signed bat and knife with a defeated sigh.

“Wouldn’t have done all of this without my beloved lady.” Shooting one last remorseful look at the aforementioned bat he lets them handcuff his hands behind his back.  
He didn’t know Lilith was back in town else he would have trodden more carefully, too wrapped up into this whole Atlas deal and it’s back to bite him on the ass. They had a few run ins in the past, the, now, chief investigator refusing to let herself be bribed and dead set on bringing Jack down but then he managed to arrange for a transfer under the guise of getting her promoted, quietly hoping to never see her again.

-II-

He’s nervously pacing in circles after having yelled his throat raw demanding his goddamn due call but the guards stationed by their holding cell mostly ignore him. The other man gave up on demanding -his- rights a little while ago and is currently sat at the edge of a cot, slumped and blankly staring at the floor.

“That where the ladies’ at?” A whiny, annoyingly cocky voice breaks the silence and to his surprise he catches the other man jumping to his feet, agitated look on his face as he strides closer to the metal bars keeping them locked in.

“Oh ho ho, Rhys, fancy meeting you here.” He runs his eyes over the newcomer, his black hair slicked back and a beard that has had way too much hair product, and Jack immediately decides he already hates the guy. But apparently not as much as… what was the kid’s name? Ah, Rhys, lousy name but it will do, especially since he can see him practically clawing at the bars, banging his prosthetic fist against the metal, left hand pushed through the bars and uselessly flailing as he tries to get a grab at the whiney man.

“Get a little closer you shit for brains, deceitful, double-crossing, hair-implanted VIPER.” This is the first time he’s seen his rival this pissed off and he genuinely ticks it of as one of the few highlights of this shitty day.

“Easy there Rhys you don’t want to hurt your only good hand, do you?” And with that the man grabs a baton from one of the impassive guards and slams it across the flailing brunet’s forearm before he can pull it back. An angry howl follows it, curses spilling from his lips.

“I’ll skin you alive Assquez!” Things start to add up in Jack’s head as the loving nickname reminds him of the documents he has read not long ago. Hugo Vasquez, Atlas’ previous boss. Precisely the one Yvette and her gang screwed over. They must have done a really poor job given that the man in question is currently strolling leisurely on the -wrong- side of the bars if you care for Jack’s opinion.

“Down boy. You make that up to me and I may accept you back into the family. After all, it’s you whom I owe getting the attention of the infamous Handsome Jack long enough for me to act.” Looks like the man loves monologuing and that pisses Jack even more because that’s his department and no one does that as well as he. Shooting a death glare at Vasquez he steps in front of his cell mate who’s now cradling his bruised arm.

“That all your doing?”

“Precisely.” The man nearly gloats, brimming with pride and dumb overconfidence “While you two ladies were at each other's throats it was easy to goad both of you as I kept feeding Mr. Blake all the right ideas. Then, setting up charges under Pandora and having -your- men caught in the act was a cake walk. A few well-meaning words whispered into right ears and I come out on top as the hero, having saved the Mayor’s son as well as unveiling the scheming rival mafia bosses, the chief investigator nearly thanked me on her knees for giving her cannon fodder against you.”

“Impressive pendejo, I’ll enjoy turning your face into skin pizza.” A thoughtful nod follows his calm statement as he turns around, seemingly losing any interest in the conversation and he takes a seat on the cot, arms crossed over his chest.  
They have a long 48 hours ahead of them and he’d rather reserve his rage for when he can actually get his hands around some poor sod’s throat.


	3. Courtesy call

The obligatory 48 hours pass and they finally get to make their calls but to Jack’s surprise his demands when Blake picks his phone up are met with a bunch of mumbled ‘sorry’s and other, half assed apologies but no promise to pay for his bail. Sorry his ass, and sorry Blake will be once he’s out of this damned place. Looks like Rhys got a similar response, no one willing to pitch in to bail them out and both men return to their shared cell with defeated expressions, heads dropped and not a word exchanged. In this case they are to await for their trial in the questionable comfort of a holding cell and neither of them seems enthusiastic about this.  
A couple more hours pass until finally, finally someone shows up and the police are letting them out, or, as Jack quickly finds out with dread, they are letting only one of them out and it sure as hell ain’t Jack. He latches onto the metal bars, curses falling on a deaf ear as he watches the other man leave. Slumping down back on the cot he lets his thoughts run wild, a million and one plans vaguely shaping in his mind.

“Jack?” Pulled out of his sulking, his eyes shoot up to meet a mismatched stare and he idly wonders if Atlas came back just to gloat at his miserable situation. “...you willing to postpone strangling me a little bit longer?” That’s not what he was expecting but that’s all he’s getting and he will gladly take it. The key clinks in the lock as the guard turns it, a follow up to his hesitant nod and he can breath again, freedom and infinite possibilities yet again within his reach.

“Why the sudden change of heart?”

“You know what they say… the enemy of my enemy and all that jazz.” Upstairs they are joined by a hunched man, glasses on his nose and a briefcase clutched in his hand. He motions for them to hurry and soon enough the three of them are seated in the safety of a car as they try scrambling their minds as to what to do next. Eventually Jack decides to take them to one of his safe houses, just outside the city’s outskirts and given the surprised looks they exchange, neither of those nerds thought of setting something like that for Atlas’ head. He can’t really blame these rookies but he’s not entirely comfortable teaming up with them either.

-II-

“All right little man, tell me what we are working here with.”

“Well…” And then he re-tells the events of the night from three days ago. Apparently damage done to Pandora was minimal, a collapsed staircase and nothing but a few casualties. All thanks to the man of the hour who came sweeping in to stop the vile gangsters trying to blow everything up. Following his success a renowned businesswoman Yvette backed his claim to the Atlas throne as they immediately reached to seize the rival gang which was basically handed to them on a silver platter by the mysterious Mr. Blake. It sends Jack into a blind rage as he wreaks havoc around the place, his two companions holding onto each other as various elements of the decor are flung around them. Only once his murderous outburst simmers down do they relax slightly, carefully eyeing him.  
He takes the time to calm down, currently locked in the bathroom and splashing cold water over his face before moving on to clean his mask. Pulling a fresh pack of contact lenses he replaces the one hiding his blinded eye and with a final sigh locks the clips securing the mask to his face. Another sigh follows and his thoughts drift to the betrayed Atlas boss. There are some similarities he begins to notice, and while Jack covers his face, the other man shields himself behind that double crossing bitch Yvette, which would explain why it was so easy to fall for his over-confidence and cool demeanor but with her out of the picture Jack can see the pathetic little child Rhys actually is. If not for the circumstances he would have had him strangled to death simply for being weak. Alas, he’ll take his chances and work with what he’s got, an uneasy alliance relying mostly on him doing the heavy lifting, or so it seems.

“Okay kiddos, we’re going to do this Handsome Jack style.” He’s already pulling out a nondescript sports bag filled to the brim with weapons, guns mostly. The magazine clips in place as he starts assembling a rifle with grim determination.

“We can’t go in guns blazing without having half the city’s police department at our heels…” The flat tone doesn’t deter him in his task in the least.

“Oh joder la policía” Jack only mumbles in response, voice conveying his underlying hatred. If need be he’ll too take them head on.

“No. Stop it.” The commanding tone nearly sets him off right there and then. “We’re not doing it your style. I don’t pick a fight I’m not certain I can win. Jack!” Warm hand clasps over his interrupting his fiddling and he springs to his feet, fist raised and ready to strike. But then it drops as of its own accord when he spots the mischievous glint shimmering in mismatched eyes. Those are nice eyes he concludes, especially gleaming like this and he shakes his head like a dog to get the intrusive thought from his mind. “I did not blackmail and backstab my way up the chain of command only to throw my life away to sate your dumb blood lust. We’re doing it Atlas style. And then you can go about your merry way and kill them.” He likes how that sounds even though it sounds like ‘patience’ and he doesn’t do patient well.

“Rhys is right, we’d be no help if a real fight broke out but we’ve got experience screwing people over. And friends in right places.” Glasses cocks his eyebrow giving Jack a hard stare. “Assquez is going down one way or another but why not make it grand. The higher the position the more painful the fall, hmm?” Oh, so Rhys’ friend has had some balls in him all along. Maybe it’s not going to be so bad, maybe his judgement was slightly off and maybe just maybe he’s not going to outright murder these two right away.

“Okay. Shoot compadre, what’s your plan?”

-II-

Rhys makes a private call and upon returning tells them it’s going to be a couple of days before their contact can meet with them to discuss the details. They agree that in the meantime, Glasses, Vaughn as Rhys helpfully supplies, should go back. There’s some paperwork that needs to be done, lawyers to be called, and an eye kept on the enemies’ movement. Vaughn convinces them he’ll be safe, stressing his words in a high-pitched voice when Jack threatens to feed him his own balls if he lets people in on their location. He takes the car so they are basically stranded in a small house just outside the city and stuck with each other 24/7.

-II-

Jack is sprawled in front of a wide screen TV, torn between watching the news covering the upcoming trial of two infamous mafia bosses and observing the kid sat a little further down the couch as he tinkers with his prosthetic arm. He has some tools scavenged from the adjacent shed, a small screwdriver, pincers, wattmeter and extra wires. It looks like his attempts at rewiring the complicate device bore no fruit and he huffs with exasperation.

“So how much movement you actually ‘ve got in this thing?” Jack shifts closer, one hand reaching to skim his fingers over cool metal before Rhys warily growls at him, moving his arm away from the unwanted touch. Regardless of his displeasure, the arm moves, bending at the elbow and then the hand rotates slightly on the hydraulic wrist to show instead of explain.

“Used to be able to move my fingers before some asshole decided to damage the circuitry…” Rhys idly pokes at the unmovable digits as if expecting them to spring back to life. “...oh wait, maybe not everything is totally fucked up...” Curious, Jack leans closer watching the kid manually bend the fingers, some of them twitching in response. “My god, would you look at that… a goddamn miracle.” The miracle turns out to be a hand shoved in his face, all fingers but the middle one curled and he can’t help but laugh at the obscene gesture, too entertained to actually feel offended.

“Wicked guapo.”

“That’s XXI century for you old man.”

If not for the shit Rhys has pulled on Jack previously he could see himself tolerating the kid, while not the smartest or strongest, he’s ruthless and cunning, full of sharp wit and dumb courage. Because how else would you describe someone who’s not shining in any of the important departments but still willing to challenge Handsome Jack. Damn dumb brave that’s what he is.

“ ‘tis why you’re hiding behind that bitch?” He nudges the artificial limb to stress his point but in fact he has the man as a whole in mind. With his stupid doe eyes and lanky limbs he’s all sharp edges and a soft heart. Scratch that, sharp edges and a soft butt for all Jack cares. Regardless, he’s hardly intimidating, maybe not at the first glance but Jack is good at reading people and he can recognize a nerd when he sees one.

“I like my privacy.”

“You don’t exactly look like a mafia boss with or without the arm cupcake. Looks to me like the only crime you’ve committed was against fashion.” He’ll keep insulting the stupidity of that atrocious cape with his dying breath.

“Did it feel like I was anything else when your life depended on my whim?” One thick eyebrow inches higher and Jack inches closer, subconsciously drawn in.

“Should have had your men pull the trigger.”

“Mayhaps.” Rhys grins and Jack responds in kind. He hasn’t noticed that he’s crowding the kid until there is a palm pressing to his chest to lightly push him away. “You stink old man.”

“You ain’t smelling like roses and lilies yourself chiquito.” The other man wrinkles his nose and gives a firmer shove, Jack falling in line and backing away.

“That’s why I’m going for a shower.” The way he says these innocent words is very much like he flirted with him at Pandora. Low and raspy and Jack wonders whether the kid wants to be followed as he moves in the direction Jack’s thumb is pointing at. There’s a light sway to his hips, intent or not but drawing Jack’s attention regardless, eyes roaming over the skin of tattooed back being gradually exposed as Rhys shucks his shirt on the go. The view brings a tingling memory of soft flesh to his fingertips and to his surprise he can feel heat pooling in his lower regions.  
The time Rhys takes to properly groom himself is insanely long, leaving Jack with enough time to cool down and think the situation over, thoughts flicking back to the words previously chucked at him when they were sandwiched in the storage area. He begs to differ, he’s not an easy man to play although he’s acutely aware of his own fondness of finer things in life. Like sex for example. Point in case, the kid did make a fool of him with sweet words and coy glances, Jack refusing to admit that maybe he has walked into that trap himself.  
The idea that the kid might by trying to screw him over again has Jack angrily pacing on the other side of bathroom door and when they swing open he blocks the exit with an arm, hand pressed to the wall.

“What kind of game are you playing this time kiddo? Not enough that you’ve already rigged my place once?” His free hand shoots to grab the taller man by his throat and Jack can feel the delightful flutter of a sped up pulse against his thumb. “Trying to fool this old dog ain’t gonna work for the second time.”

“Or so you believe.” It’s choked out as the other man squirms against his grip, clothes he previously held in his hand now scattered on the floor and Jack feels the strongest urge to rip the towel for now securely wrapped around narrow hips. “Or maybe…” the flailing ceases and his attention is drawn back to two mismatched eyes that now harden and the pull against his grasp turns into a push, Rhys now leaning against Jack’s palm, face and chest flushed red but eyes unrelenting. He has to relax his fingers if he doesn’t want to crush this dumbass’ windpipe and if he wants to hear the rest of that ‘maybe’. Rhys clears his throat when the pressure eases and when he speaks his voice is deep, scratched and stupidly honest. “...or maybe I just wanted to tease you a little bit.”

Jack wants to wipe that annoying smugness from his face and tugging the other man closer he growls and wraps one arm around his waist. Warm skin feels so damn good against his rough palm and he breaths in the familiar scent pushing through the overpowering smell of beauty products, clean and good and by god he’s starved, frustration of the last few days catching up with him.

“I ain’t got time for teasing pendejo.”  
Fingers dig into his shoulders, one set soft and warm the other unpleasantly hard and cold as Rhys leans closer to brush his lips to Jack’s ear.

“Easy there, this time it’s going to take more than a few nickels and dimes to get you what you want.” And with that he’s once again lightly shoved away, Rhys slipping from his grasp like he kept on doing from day one. Aside from a barely audible whine building in his throat, he doesn’t protest at the loss of contact, running heated stare over the other man before his eyes fix on scarred flesh of his right arm, half swallowed by a metal casing.  
Rhys pretends to not notice that he’s staring, grabbing his scattered clothes and briskly heading out in search for a place to sleep.

-II-

He thinks the other man looks simply ridiculous in Jack’s clothes, too baggy but at the same too small, scrawny ankles sticking from too short sweats. But Rhys doesn’t complain and he figures that’s okay. The next day is filled with more heavy atmosphere hanging between them, Rhys constantly blowing hot and cold and driving Jack mad. Seeing him struggle with some of the more mundane tasks also drives him mad, as does giving in and stepping in to help him despite growled threats that it’s not needed nor appreciated. It takes another day for Vaughn to show up, Rhys’ clothes stuffed in a plastic bag and Jack catches a glance of one brightly coloured sock in that mess before the other man disappears to get himself dressed. The way the other man dresses is annoying, always crisp and nearly painfully formal, coupled with that unneeded flashiness and Jack thinks he much more preferred the kid in his sweats and t-shirts.   
It’s time to meet Atlas’ contact and they sit in silence, Jack in the backseat and Rhys with his friend at the front, a cheerless song playing on the radio.

-II-

Entering a small cafe Jack bristles having spotted a policewoman sat in the corner but she greets them with a small wave and his companions reply so he keeps his mouth shut for now.

“Rhys!” She’s accompanied by another woman, dressed casually and it’s her who beckons them closer, already motioning for the waiter to come collect the orders.

“Sasha! Fiona. You’re a sight for sore eyes.” Rhys plops himself down across from them and then scoots further down the bench to makes space for the other two men.

“Wow. Is that… that Handsome Jack you’ve got there?” Why are they talking about him like he’s not here? He doesn’t like that, scowl twisting his lips.

“In the flesh baby.”

Vaughn quickly briefs everyone on the situation, in the last days he has learned that despite the shift in power, few people are happy with having Vasquez back in charge, Yvette being the one most disgruntled about the situation.

“So what’s the plan?” The quieter of the two, Fiona - he figures, finally raises the most burning question and they all look between him and Rhys but it’s the latter who speaks first.

“We have three threats to address, Vasquez, the Mayor and Lilith. I’m hoping Fiona can take care of the Mayor, you always have had a way with words, we can either bribe him, convince him that we mean no harm or incriminate him. Anything as long as you can keep him from interfering. Would our situation be better with or without him?” Rhys looks expectantly to Jack, awaiting his opinion.  
“Leave him, he’s a coward who can be easily manipulated we don’t need any new blood in the city. If we can push the guilt back to Vasquez a round sum of money will easily placate him.” A thoughtful nod follows his words, Vaughn soon enough piping in to let them know that he will be taking care of that part. One down two to go and it’s Jack’s turn to offer some advice.

“My head isn’t the only one Lilith’s after, there are other rival gangs, choose one as far away from here as possible, have them expose themselves and let her catch a whiff of it, she’ll be gone in seconds. Without her and her men the police department will fall apart and hopefully we’ll get the trials out of the way before she’s back.”

“Give me two days and she’ll be out of your hair. What about Vasquez?” Sasha takes upon herself drawing Lilith away and while their plan isn’t perfect, he’ll have to wait for another occasion to deal with the chief investigator more permanently.

“You leave him to me.” Rhys’ voice drops an octave lower, brows furrowed and a nasty grin on his lips. “With nothing tying our hands we can sneak in and have a nice little chat with mister Wallethead, right?” Brown and blue eyes shift to meet his and he replies with a shit eating smirk of his own. And here he was fearing they would leave him out on the fun.

They go over the details a couple more times before settling on the final version and it’s time to get going again.

“Rhys… you can’t keep getting into troubles and expecting me to sweep in to save the day everytime it happens.” Jack slows his pace trying to overhear the conversation going on behind his back.

“You have to be kidding me Fi, I saved your butt so many times a small favour like this should hardly bother you.”

“I’m doing this for the money not you.” What a law abiding cop she is, wow, her tone flat and Jack wonders if the two of them have some history.

“Mh, missed you too, you should drop by more often.”

“Wouldn’t like Athena to find out I’ve fallen back in with you people.” That’s a name he recognizes but Jack isn’t going to butt in, well aware of the advantage of keeping his secrets close to his heart. He has heard that Athena has taken a protege under her wings, he just never assumed it was someone who just so happened to be in cahoots with the rival gang. 

-II-

Later Jack learns that the two were Rhys’ former accomplices and considerably helped in his rise to power, one choosing to join the enemy’s ranks becoming a cop and the other dabbling in far less honorable affairs.

“Your plan heavily relies on you trusting me to watch your back. Ain’t that ironic?” Jack crosses his arms over his chest watching the other man fumble about in the kitchen.

“Am I making a mistake here?” The stare he receives is a hard one, not a trace of doubt despite the question hanging in the air.

“Only time will show kiddo. But tell me, we crush our enemies, have our revenge and pop a few heads open, then what?” That’s a far more pressing matter and it seems it has been bothering the other man as well as he leans against the counter, worrying at his lower lip and Jack catches himself unable to shift his attention anywhere else.

“We deal with the ‘then’ when it becomes ‘now’ I guess.” It’s clear Rhys doesn’t want to talk about it and in the end Jack decides not to press the topic for now. Whatever happens, he will come out on top of it as he always does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one or two chapters left i guess,  
> just letting you kiddos know that I gush over every comment I get even though i rarely respond, you da real MVP :^)  
> (how is it 4 am when it was 4 pm just moments ago?)


	4. Destruction of assumption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I might have uhhh fixed a couple of mistakes in the previous chapters since i take it some people will end up re-reading those so don't freak out. But nothing ground breaking, some typos or awkward sentences

Jack curses, nearly stunned by the sheer stupidity of his situation, currently stuck in the vents and trying to awkwardly wiggle his way forward. See, the thing with undercover missions and crawling through ventilation systems only works in books. Sometimes in movies. But never in real life. He shouldn’t have agreed to it and definitely he -should- have kicked Atlas square in his dumb face as the other man gave him a patronizing pat on his ankle before shoving him further down the narrow space. It certainly isn’t the extra sauce he’s been getting with his meals lately, nor is it the extra leisure time he chooses over getting some exercises, in fact, it’s the sheer width of his shoulders that stumps him, stuck as fuck and only able to move on the exhale. However, the extra sauce and the extra naps were the reason he had to actually climb on top of his wheezing enemy’s back, the kid too weak to give him a lift in any other way, and a good dose of grunts later he finally managed to haul himself through the narrow opening and into the shaft. 

Jack curses again for a good measure, the rope at his hip catching onto something and in all honesty, if Rhys gets himself killed just because he insisted on making him take the dumb rope, he isn’t going to shed a single tear. If the kid dies Jack isn’t going to shed a single tear anyway but he sincerely hopes it will happen -after- he got at least one more go at that soft ass. 

The whole rope accident was a mistake, the two of them rummaging through the safe house’s cellar, a good supply of extra cash, weapons and all other necessary things stashed there, when Rhys picked up a bundle of rope. 

“Take it.”

“Fuck no. This ain’t a movie kiddo.” There are limits to how far Jack was willing to go for the sake of their plan and he drew the line at a fucking rope.

“Come on man, what if you’ll need it?” Tried as he might, Jack couldn’t imagine a single scenario where a rope could come in handy, the whole idea so cliche it made his brain hurt from trying to wrap his head around it. “Oh? ‘This ain’t a movie’? So what do you need that shank for, Rambo?” Rhys moved into his personal space, jabbing a knife, not a shank thank you very much, strapped to his belt, nasty smirk curling his lips. 

“You try making me take the fucking rope guapo, I’m strangling you with it later.” The growl was followed with a furrow of his eyebrows as the hand previously poking the the handle now moved to rest over his hip and Jack grew even more acutely aware of the body just a couple of centimeters away from his. Even though he half expected to be turned down, no force on earth could make him resist giving into the welcoming warmth, his harsh words softened with a finger coming up to trace along the other man’s jaw and down to his throat, illustrating the point he was trying to make. 

“Mmm, sounds nice.” If he didn’t get to blow off some steam soon the kid would be the death of him, constantly teasing but keeping him at an arm’s length and while in normal circumstances Jack wouldn’t hesitate to take what he wanted, the need to retain their tentative alliance prevailed. And so he only huffed in annoyance, fingers briefly skimming over the exposed wrist of the other man before contact disappeared, the only other thing to occupy his thoughts with being the scenarios of how he was going to get back at that insufferable brat. 

Regardless, he has been played, literally roped into dragging a couple of extra pounds of useless string and currently, finally arriving at a wider portion of the vent, a quick peer through the grills confirms that he is getting closer, Vasquez’s whiney voice becoming more and more audible.

“So you are telling me that moron came back begging to be taken back into the family? I knew he’d do that! God I hope he’s got a chapstick on him cuz he’s going to do -a lot- of ass kissing before I even consider it.” Jack sniggers at the bad joke, lightly entertained at the perspective of permanently shutting this fucker’s mouth. Yeah, Rhys came back and given the kid’s acting talent some begging must have been involved but for all Jack knows, the only ass anyone will be kissing is his. Getting the ex-Atlas boss in was easy, their man on the inside cheerfully spreading the rumour that he was back and on his knees at the front door of one of their facilities, coincidentally the one they have learned Vasquez has taken a shine to and seemed to be hanging around most often. Getting Jack in however, was another story, especially since he was armed to teeth and generally outnumbered. Hence the vent crawl, his destination an office where the new boss tended to admit claimants as their source claimed. 

He’s nearly there, a little bit later than they anticipated and the resounding slap of someone’s palm landing against undoubtedly, a face makes him fumble a bit more vigorously.

“Rhys! All I was offering you was some guidance. To teach you humility and now you will need to start all over, work your way up from the bottom. Because -you- turned your back on me. You ungrateful…” Another slap “...lying…” and another “...pissfuck!” There is a gasp following that and Jack winces at the implication of the punch.

“Eat shit Wallethead! Fall of a dick for all I care.” The kid sure as hell is mouthy, perhaps one of the reasons Jack might have started developing a soft spot for him. Not that he will ever admit that out loud. He wonders how Rhys would pull through the situation he just got himself into if Jack were to stand him up right now. Another peer through a grill confirms that without his help he just -wouldn’t- pull through it as he spots the two men now grabbing onto their respective foreheads, one of those morons apparently trying to headbutt the other. Jack tsks at the lack of their competence, now directly right over Vasquez, the origin of the ‘wallethead’ nickname making suddenly more sense, and he struggles to get the grid open before he can drop down and save the day. Except it’s not only the grid that gives under his annoyed flailing but also a good portion of the vent itself and the world suddenly spins as he drops down, the back of his head colliding painfully with Vasquez’s and whole body jerking when the god damned rope now tangled around his ankles catches on one of the jagged edges of the torn shaft and stops his fall. He’s quick to recover, upside down swinging wildly over the knocked over man and trying to duck when Vasquez takes a blind swing at him. In theory he could pull the gun he has strapped under his arm but he simply prefers punching the asshole now scrambling to his feet and knocking him out cold. So he does just that and man, but that feels great, his scratched and bloodied knuckles now pulsing with satisfying pain as an unconscious body tumbles again to the ground.

Rhys and one of the Atlas’ lackeys who apparently was the one to bring him in stare at Jack as he tries wiggling free from the constrains, his knife having fallen to the ground and now beyond his reach. 

“Wow. That was one hell of an entrance.” The kid is clearly impressed and earns only a dismissive shrug between some more flailing. “All right, get the word out that I’m back.” Rhys turns all business when addressing his, now again, man and stalks closer, picking the abandoned weapon before crouching next to the dangling man with a shit-eating smirk, artificial limb resting against his shoulder to stop the swaying.

“Come on guapo, don’t leave me hanging here.” The stillness prolongs, Rhys obviously pondering his next step. If he turns his back on Jack, which he seems to be considering, there’s going to be bloodshed. He’s going to fucking murder him and dance on his corpse. Eyes squinted and face pulled into a hateful expression Jack tries to convey all those malicious thoughts, not willing to risk threatening the other man verbally when he’s stuck in such a compromising position. They glare at each other for a little while longer but eventually, after a good minute or so of soaking in the tense atmosphere, Rhys stands up, working the knife against the rope and with an ‘omph’ Jack drops to the ground. He immediately has the gun pulled on the other man, sat flat on his ass and staring up. The situation got on his nerves badly enough that he’s seriously thinking of double-crossing Atlas and just taking both organizations for himself, the weapon which Rhys still has brandished in his grasp clearly outmatched. Except Jack doesn’t have the time to consider all of his options as the kid’s knees hit the floor, one dangerously close to his junk and suddenly he finds himself crowded by the other man, his vision narrowing down to two mismatched eyes boring into his. There is a moment of quietness before a hand shoots up to tangle into his shirt, the crazy kid clearly riding the high of the victory, and pulling him closer until his breath ghosts over Jack’s lips. There aren’t many points of contact between them but with the way he’s leaning over him it feels like they are tightly tangled into each other, the atmosphere going from charged to virtually kicked into an overdrive. The back of his head still hurts as do his knees from all the crawling and yet the only thing he can concentrate on is the lithe figure nearly on his lap, the way his eyes turn drowsy and half lidded and the way it, in return, turns him stupidly on.

“Hey, kiddo…” He has to swallow, tongue darting to wet his lips and he can see the other man canting his head slightly. “...I don’t…” The rest of his sentence gets nearly devoured, straight out of his mouth, insistent teeth nipping at his lower lip. Yeah, he doesn’t kiss. And yet he doesn’t mind being kissed like that either, hand coming up to tangle into no longer perfectly coiffed hair to tug the kid closer and he responds in earnest, pushing his tongue in when those soft lips part. It’s good and satisfying, maybe even more than punching Vasquez in the face and his heart races when a small mewl escapes the other. Rhys tastes of blood from his split lip and every time Jack manages to irritate the small cut, there is a growl but the kid is unrelenting, for every bite the affection returned in kind, giving him the illusion of control before wrestling it back. 

“Yeah. I know. You don’t kiss. But -I- do.” Finally pulling back and creating some space between them, brown and blue eyes dart down to the barrel of a gun which for the whole time stayed pressed to his chest and Jack follows suit, his wandering gaze coming to a halt at the sight of the knife against his quickly rising and falling ribs. Well that’s interesting, self preservation instincts at their best but it’s nowhere near as interesting as the slightly dazed look he’s currently receiving.

What Rhys fails to realize is the full motto, which says that Jack doesn’t kiss strangers and hookers. And by now the kid is neither of those. He reaches up with his free hand, fingers carding through now even messier hair and all he wants to do is give a firm shove and finally get him -onto- his lap and maybe kiss that smug grin Atlas is sporting off of his dumb lips. He doesn’t get the chance to do that however when a grunt makes the both of them jerk their heads, the unconscious man next to them slowly starting to come back to reality. Jack delivers a swift kick to his head but the mood is ruined and his rival is on his way to getting up as the sound of numerous footsteps approach the office. There is a hand outstretched towards him, his own fingers clasping around the offered forearm and he’s getting hauled to his feet.

People pour into the room, some of them giving a relieved sigh at the sight some of them loudly gasping and Jack couldn’t care less, watching Rhys straighten up, shoulders squared and chin held high.

“Alright people, the show is over. We’re back in game!” He does the same, putting his best big boss face on and slowly beginning to herd his men, mixed up with Atlas and somewhat reluctant to go. No saying he doesn’t share the sentiment but it’s time to head home, fix this mess and maybe get a few heads rolling for the betrayal.

Almost at the exist, Jack stops in his tracks as the other boss slinks into his personal space again, breath caught in his throat and a quiet, raspy invitation murmured into his ear.

“Hey… don’t be a stranger…” There is a wink before the man goes back to mingling with his own people and Jack solemnly swears to follow the advice. After all, they still have a couple of unresolved matters.

-II-

It takes him a couple of days, some sorting through the sad remains of his stock, some housekeeping and one particularly satisfying strangulation of his right hand man before he shows up at ‘the Cupcake’ again. Late night chill has him popping the collar of his leather jacket as he walks into the building, the guards at the rear entrance letting him in without a word. He finds his rival in the small room at the back, sat by the wooden desk and clearly jerked awake from a nap he’s been taking, dried drool pooled on the stack of papers pretending to be a sad excuse of a pillow.

“Mhh?” The kid is rubbing sleep from his eyes, blearily taking stock of the intruder. “Here to negotiate…?”

“I don’t negotiate guapo, I’m here to take back what is mine.” Jack slams down a folder with the list of missing inventory his accountants managed to string together, and the sudden movement brings some more awakeness to the other’s eyes. However, the documents end up completely ignored as Rhys gets up, circling around the desk to finally come to a stop just in front of the other man, casually leaning against the desktop with his arms crossed over his chest.

“You may want to try a little -harder- than that, it’s not in my nature to just let go of things…” That flippant attitude is driving Jack mad, but it’s also dragging him closer, the irresistible pull making him take a step towards the other man, all fluffed up and as intimidating as he can possibly get. He hates not getting what he craves, not used to the feeling of someone eluding him for this long and by god, it’s time to put a stop to this, another measured step closer taken. 

“Oh I’ll show you harder you brat.” He hisses, torn between wanting to punch Atlas and fuck him. But business is business and so he grabs his rival by the wrists, one warm and boney the other hard and cold against his tightening fingers. “We split 70 to 30%. And you get to keep that little club you’ve got.” Since their supplies have been mixed up when Vasquez moved them all to one place, Jack figures they should just divide the percentage amongst the two gangs.

“No longer bothered by our presence here?” The kid chuckles, hardly bothered to struggle against the vice-like grip around his wrists, even as Jack moves to pin both of his arms behind his back. 

“I get a cut in every profit you make dealing my stuff, and you make me your one and only supplier. Stick to what you do best, running Pandora and selling sex.” He has no interest in those two but sex and drugs do go together like bread and butter so it feels like a mutually beneficial deal. At least until he’s being shot a mischievous smirk and the sudden wild thrashing has him releasing his grasp, the tug and pull insistent until he’s the one pressed to the tabletop, their positions reversed and a weak grip holding him down. That’s just laughable but Jack lets the other keep the illusion of the upper hand for now.

“No go. 50/50, I got punched in the guts for this.” By now they are chest to chest, like they are once again sandwiched behind the pantry and with every breath Jack takes, the familiar scent makes his head spin. “No cut either but hmm let’s see…” He cocks his head, mildly curious what other goods Atlas was willing to surrender for the tentative alliance “... you get a lifelong free entry to Pandora? Heard you were having troubles getting in last time.” Jack only growls at the smug grin he’s getting, anger mixed with arousal beginning to build up inside of him. And so he does the only sensible thing, freeing his hands and wrapping them around Rhys’ waist, he tugs him closer, now pressed completely flush, the twin hardness letting him know that the ‘negotiations’ are heading in the right, if maybe not exactly fruitful direction. 

“60 to 40. I crawled through some dumb vents, give me a break kiddo. Free of charge entry -and- drinks on the house.” And a chance to finally fuck Atlas’ boss but that, he keeps to himself, giving a light grind as he slips his hands down the back of the aforementioned boss’ slacks.

“Okay, take your 40 percent. And the drinks. You will provide the goods we distribute them. Oh, and free fluctuation of men between us, I know some of mine will want to stay in the importation business.” And Jack suspects some of his will want to move over to Atlas and he’s more or less okay with it. What he however isn’t okay with is the first part of the deal, words clearly chucked at him to spur him on but before he gets the chance to voice his displeasure, Rhys is already pushing him harder against the desk, a prompt given to hop onto it. Done with the useless talking and waiting, Jack tugs the other man into a feverish kiss, filing that damned 40% for later, too busy trying to shove his tongue into willing mouth to care for anything else. There is a hand roaming over his body, his own two coming to wrap around the tattooed neck and there is no way in hell anyone could chalk it up to ‘proximity’, the want and need clear as day between the two of them. He doesn’t protest when his fly gets undone, the mouth at his throat too distracting as he half-heartedly helps in kicking his trousers off, and a strangled moan escapes him when warm fingers wrap around him, an experimental tug given to gouge his reaction. Which is enthusiastic to say the least. A sound of a zipper getting pulled down breaks through the haze clouding his mind and when something hot presses intimately close against his ass, Jack cracks one eye open, surprised to find them closed in the first time. He hums, considering his options and finally deciding that rolling with what the kid wants couldn’t hurt, he relents, dragging his leg along the dip of the other’s hip.

“Careful, the goods haven’t been touched in a while…” The other man pulls back, eyeing him curiously but still keeping the languid movement of his hand if only to make stringing two words together all that harder.

“How come?”

“Yeah… didn’t get a chance ever since…” He trails off, not particularly keen on sharing the story.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to bring up a ghost.” Jack snorts in reply, shaking his head when the fingers previously giving him the oh-so-nice attention move to brush over his cheek.

“Don’t get me wrong, this particular ghost would have had the time of her life watching you and me right now.” 

“Aren’t you full of surprises…” It’s a hot whisper against his lips and his chuckle gets stifled when Rhys leans in for another kiss, soft at first but turning bruising as Jack grows annoyed at the prolonged lack of contact, ears picking up on some rustling, the source of which quickly turns out to be a small packet and a tube getting dropped to his side.

“See you’re keeping necessary supplies in your office.” Not that he particularly minds, but that disregards the effort he went through, stuffing a similar set into the back pocket of his trousers, now carelessly half dropped to the floor, half hanging by the material caught around his ankle.

“And you’re trying to tell me you don’t?” No denying that. “Gonna need you to give me a hand, I’m kinda lacking in this department.” It’s good to know that the kid’s upstanding sense of humour hasn’t drained with the blood pooling south. But Jack has a better idea, grabbing the lube and passing it to the other man, a good way to kill two birds with one stone, after all, he has always been resourceful.

“How about you shut your damn mouth before you talk my ear off?” Yeah, there has been way too much talking for his liking, despite snarky comments and cocky attitude being a part of the kid’s irresistible charm. His words earn him a roll of two mismatched eyes and a more or less obedient follow up to his command and a hand pushing the younger man down, a suddenly missed full body contact and soft lips wrapping around hard flesh incite a few choice words from him. 

Jack leans back on his elbows, one foot coming up to steady himself against the thigh of the crouching man as well as to give him better access and as slickened fingers begin to poke and prod, he lets his head loll back, satisfied hums giving voice to the right curl of the other’s fingers or a particularly nice lap of his tongue. The mouth sucking him off is aimed at drawing his attention away from the stretch slowly growing uncomfortable with each added digit, and he eagerly gives into the distraction of the damp heat. A brief glance down the length of his body confirms, or even surpasses the picture he had in mind beforehand, and damn, Atlas looks good like that, on his knees, cheeks and ears flushed red, his face framed by Jack’s thighs, with his hair all messed up from that time the other man gave a more vigorous tug to get him going, eyes bright and focused as he moves to mouth along the base. 

“Need an invitation princesa? Come on.” He’s a big boy that can handle himself, any more prep and he’s sure that would be his undoing. The words prompt his rival to stand up again, reaching for the previously abandoned packet and fishing out a rubber, he deftly rolls it down, the unmistakable smell of latex filling the air. He then leans over the other man as Jack wraps his legs around the narrow waist, something he might have been dreaming about since he saw him parading about the safe house in nothing but a towel, and guiding himself with the flesh hand, Rhys begins to steadily breach the tightness, sinking in until he’s buried to the hilt. It burns but in a good way, the extra slickness easing the slide and he’s already tugging the other man by the lapels of his vest, dragging him in for some more of those heated kisses, a couple of lighter bites peppered along the curve of his jaw in between. 

Jack has had some good sex before, yeah, and today’s experience definitely makes it to the top ten, the whole build up of the past couple of days, the tension and the snarky exchanges fanning the heat in his belly definitely contributing to making this positively mind blowing. It’s only adding to his over bloated ego, having watched Rhys turned into a right mess when on the other end of such an arrangement back then after Pandora, and watching him turn into a right mess right now, balls deep inside of Jack and rocking back and forth with a pinched expression and teeth showed in a half-snarl. He concludes that the kid looks good like that, more than good, he looks absolutely stunning, all this time going nearly toe to toe with him, annoying and beyond his grasp and right now Jack finally has his brand new toy all to himself, partly upset that their surroundings aren’t all that friendly towards a change of position so he could straddle and ride the other man but mostly, just too fucking pleased to do anything beyond nudging Atlas to give him some more attention. Between the dual feeling of the heat sparking with every correctly aimed roll of Rhys’ hips and the hand working away at the tension knotting in the pit of his stomach, the sloppy kisses pressed to the side of his neck finally do it for him, the fun over too soon but the release chased desperately when just within his reach. Before he can come down from the high of his orgasm, the body above him stills, kisses turning into a restrained bite against the junction between his neck and shoulder and Jack hisses, suddenly pinned down by the boneless weight sprawled on top of him. 

A little while later, dressed up and carelessly swinging his dangling leg, the other bent, heel against the edge of the desk and knee tucked against his chest, Jack finally agrees to that 50/50 deal, feeling generally too satisfied and lazy to bother arguing any more. The sentiment seems to be shared, Rhys sprawled on his swivel chair, idly rolling back and forth and talking in a soft voice about something so minuscule Jack can’t work himself up to pay attention to. 

Jack thinks he would like to drift off to sleep to that sound one day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think i might have one more chapter in me, just to get some closure with those jerks and thats it.  
> its going to be a really, reaaaally self indulgent chapter *wink wonk*


	5. Seven kinds of naughty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know this story has basically ended with the previous chapter but I could not resist writing something short and sweet as a goodbye so enjoy some shameless porn and shiet :^)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written in loving memory of my favourite LGBTQ seedy club that unfortunately got closed after the staircase gave under the mass of people. RIP IN FUCKING PIECES KITSCH nothing will ever replace you in my heart.
> 
> I even have a playlist for this chapter if you care for some raunchy, shitty tune https://open.spotify.com/user/1191054646/playlist/00jrLbTR5CFq7q9cvrqR8G

It’s Meg who brings up the subject, the new girl around, effectively filling in after late Blake as his right hand but also, unwittingly as his new bodyguard. She’s a force to be reckoned with and Jack could swear he saw her haul men twice her size over her shoulder and break them like they were nothing. So when she says that maybe he should take some time off and drop by Pandora, he doesn’t protest. He also doesn’t protest because he’s not the one to turn down an invitation to have fun ever, and it’s finally time to see if Atlas made good on his promise to cover Jack’s bills at the club. 

“It’s a crop top night boss… I know you’ve got this angle covered but maybe put on something clean.” As he glowers at the woman, Jack gives a tug to his usual tank top, a little wear and tear and years of prolonged use making the fabric shrink enough that it nearly falls into the crop top category.

“You wound me Meg. Think I can’t even dress myself properly?” Of course he can! Even his current outfit is a dead proof of it. But she seems to have some doubts and ends their conversation with a promise to come pick him up and bring something more presentable for him.  
Jack would shoot her on the spot if she wasn’t so good at her job.

-II-

It’s nearly 10 pm, the time for most of the night creatures to become active, and Jack being one of them is currently standing before a choice between, as Meg has put it, ‘getting laid’ and ‘intimidation’. There is a shirt on a hanger in each of her hands and after some more pondering he chooses a white V-neck, on a looser side but with a stretch of flexible fabric at the hem which keeps the lower half clinging nicely to the body.

“Guess you are intimidating enough on your own boss.” She drops the black shirt rimmed with a double row of studs onto the chair and patiently waits for her boss to get redressed. They make for a really good looking pair, Jack thinks as he fixes the strap of his suspenders and scales Meg with curious eyes. A skirt with a high waist and a double layered shirt, dark sheer material with a heart pattern on top and a tightly fitted band below, just enough to leave you guessing. 

Pandora welcomes them with a queue at the door and a bouncer who doesn’t dare to make a quip about his sneakers, be it because of Handsome Jack’s reputation preceding them or the glare Meg shot him but Jack likes to think it’s the former.

The music pounding from the speakers thrumms through his veins, igniting the blood and sparking something more primal in him but for now, he settles for being led to a table, one which Meg must have reserved for them beforehand. It has to be one of those VIP tables, and good god he wouldn’t have settled for anything less, as immediately as he takes a seat, one of the bartenders shimmies closer to take his order. By the time he’s nearly finished with the first drink, one foot tapping against the ground to the rhythm of the music, his right hand woman is as good as gone, swallowed by the pulsing mass of people on the dancefloor. Now that Jack isn’t consumed by rage and envy, the place turns out to be more than acceptable, despite the occasionally gaudy decor, one of the walls lined with faux leopard-print fur and there is a dancing pole further down the dance area, now being fought over by the customers but as far as he knows, it’s there for the occasional guest performances of the local drag queen band. The staff today is dressed according to the theme, their dress shirts buttoned only about halfway down and the loose flaps are tied around their waists but Jack has eyes only for one particular figure, eyes intently scanning the crowd in search of a perfectly coiffed hairstyle poking above the crowd or a flash of light reflected against a metal limb. He’s so intently staring at people’s legs and trying to find that one pair he would really like to see wrapped around his waist tonight that a sudden movement to his right goes nearly unnoticed. 

“Hi!” The greeting needs to be followed with a tap to his elbow and a repetition for Jack to finally pay attention to the man sat at the other end of a small round table. Vaughn, Atlas’ money man if he remembers correctly but what draws his attention is the unreasonable amount of sculpted muscles, now on full display thanks to his outfit. It has Jack cocking one of his eyebrows and whistling in appreciation as the other man tries to sub-consciously tug the crop top with a dollar bill sign down. 

“Nice six you are packing there cupcake.” The only downside of trying to hold a conversation at Pandora is the constant need to nearly yell in order to be heard over the music.

“Uh… thanks. Are you enjoying yourself?” Yeah, definitely more than last time but subsequently Jack will enjoy himself far less if the night won’t end up like last time.

“Looking for your boss.”

“That should be easy…” His eyebrows furrow at the sound of a familiar voice and soon enough Yvette slinks down beside the accountant, carelessly sprawling herself on the chair. She’s probably the last person he would expect here given her recent betrayal. “...Rhys is somewhere out there…” she gestures vaguely towards the dancefloor “...and he’s on the prowl tonight, just put yourself out and he’ll come after your ass. Provided he hasn’t already netted a prey tonight or drunk himself under the table.” 

“And just what the hell are you doing here, you bitch?” There is no way he could keep venom out of his words even if he tried.

“Still bitter I see. Thankfully my boss can see value in keeping an opportunist like myself at his side.” Yvette laughs but Jack suspects there has to be something more she’s not telling him.

“The three of us go back together a long way.” He nearly forgot about the third participant of their conversation, eyes briefly flicking to the accountant before the other man gets dragged back into the crowd. Just before disappearing into the mass of human bodies, he shoots Jack a half-apologetic shrug but he also seems to be relieved as the rhythm takes over his body and the two of them end up quickly absorbed into the mass. Looks like everybody is having more fun than Jack is and to be fair, it’s unacceptable so he motions the bartender over and a little while later, a shot of tequila knocked back for courage, he’s stalking towards the dancefloor. People bump into him, grabby hands and sweaty bodies trying to sway him into a dance but so far he’s been quite successfully rebutting all the attempts. 

It takes him a full lap, slowly circling towards the center, and some slowly dwindling down hope to finally find what he’s looking for. On one hand, it might be for the better since he was seriously considering barging into the DJ’s booth, wrestling a microphone from him and calling out Atlas’ boss on the loudspeakers, on the other, however, maybe it would have spared him the sight before him and the uneasy, and certainly unwelcome twist in his guts. 

There he is, long lanky legs, more pale skin on full display than acceptable and Rhys would have looked only moderately less indecent if he was completely naked. The ankle high boots, the booty shorts and the nearly native to Pandora half-patterned shirt unbuttoned, barely covering anything, with flaps tied just below his chest, coupled with the sensual roll of Rhys’ hips are the good things. Good enough that Jack takes a second to burn the image into his mind, the mix of teal material with the red bowtie loosely hanging around his neck and the way neon lights highlight the curve of his body, blue glow making the tint of one of his eyes, shielded by the long eyelashes, all the more striking. However, the bad thing and the one sparking some good old fashioned jealousy in him is the way the kid seems to be practically rubbing himself all over his two dance partners, slender hand tipped with manicured fingernails latched onto his flesh forearm and a broader one, with a layer of coarse hairs stretching even over the second knuckle curled around the familiar curve of this oh so sweet ass have Jack seeing red. He stomps his way closer, shoving people away and with a nasty growl sends the unfortunate duo away, arm coming from behind to wrap around a narrow waist to tug his prey closer to his chest. Rhys stills for a second before happily resuming the grinding against his new partner and only cranes his neck to toss a glance over his shoulders when Jack’s fingers graze the buckle of his belt, a completely useless thing given how the shorts seem to be barely hanging on the younger man’s hips anyway. His expression, at first unfocused, melts into a genuine smile, endearing enough that Jack is willing to forgive the previous misbehaving. 

“Hey.” It’s soft and the breath grazing over Jack’s cheek carries traces of sweet alcohol. To say that the kid is tipsy would be an understatement but he seems to be holding his liquor fairly well and as the music drops into something faster, deep bass thumping around them, making their bodies instinctively fall into the right tempo, Rhys fully turns around, tugging the other man into the up and down beat. Jack likes to think he’s got fairly good moves, maybe a little bit old fashioned but they are playing old fashioned songs today anyway. Rhys however doesn’t seem to agree with him on that matter, scoffing lightly at one of the ‘better’ moves but Jack figures that’s okay, because the kid is like quicksilver, lightning on his feet and languid rolls of his hips, a dip of his shoulder followed with an enticing tilt of his head and an upturned curl of full lips, something most people can only dream of. The way he slinks about Jack is giving the older man back pain just from looking at it but at the same time, he doesn’t mind being led with a hand resting over the base of his neck and metal fingers tangled into a strap of his suspenders. He lasts a couple more songs, eagerly giving into the spell the revealing clothes and the earworm tune hold over the crowd. One of the beats, slower and more sensual has them pressed closer, only a breath apart and moving as one. For a moment it feels like the only thin line between them dancing and outright having sex right then and there is the skimpy layer of clothes, two bodies slotted as close as possible, Jack’s hands gripping the kid’s ass and it’s hot, so hot, air heated with the energy pulsing through the crowd, the alcohol and the coy glances he’s receiving only fanning it further. There is a barely audibly gasp, something he more felt ghosting over his skin than heard, Rhys resting his forehead against Jack’s for a little bit longer but the moment the tempo of the music swaps back to something faster and far more upbeat, the intimate contact is broken, the younger man bouncing back to go back to vigorously shaking his ass. Jack has to call for a half time after that, breath coming short not only from the exertion but also because of the arousal that has settled heavily in the pit of his stomach and if he’s being honest, he’d rather not end up sporting a full blown chub in the middle of the crowd. The kid follows him to the edge of the dance floor, pouting slightly and only once they arrive at the VIP table does he become aware of the iron grip he has on Rhys’ wrist. 

“Already giving up old man?” Jack only wrinkles his nose in response, shooting this insufferable brat a nasty look as he waves the bartender over. He needs another drink to calm himself down before he strangles the other man for poking fun at him.

“I don’t think anyone could keep up with you, but by all means please, do not let me stop you from continuing grinding against my dick.” One eyebrow cocked in a smug expression, he perches himself atop one of the tall chairs and sweeps his hand over the front of his body in an invitation. It’s clear that the proposition gives the kid a pause and to Jack’s surprise he seems to seriously be considering it, the music still having a hold over him, a constant light sway of his hips and the lively bob of his head along the beat still there, only marginally thanks to his state of inebriation. His lips twitch into a half-smirk as he watches the kid saunter closer, decision finally made and soon enough there are warm fingers against the base of his throat, brushing over sensitive skin, the sensation quickly joined by the feeling of soft material wrapping around his neck.

“I charge by the hour handsome.” With how close they are right now, Rhys leaning over him and nosing along the curl of his ear, Jack can’t see what it is that has now upgraded his outfit but he may have a fairly good idea, his own hands shooting up to rest over the kid’s shoulder and as his thumbs skim over the tattooed skin, nothing gets in the way of his touch. The red bowtie, secured by a stretch of velcro at the back. Not a real fancy thing but Jack can appreciate the simplicity of it.

“I’ll have two.”

“You couldn’t afford me even if you wanted.” Despite those words, his hand is encouraged to move lower, resting over the exposed skin of Rhys’ hip and a thigh presses between his own leg. 

“Set me up with a loyalty card?” It qualifies as a lap dance in Jack’s books, no way to call it anything else, and he has to tip his head back to meet the sensual, mismatched stare, a dusting of blush colouring the other’s cheeks and the bridge of his nose but there is nothing bashful or timid about the way he moves and grinds down. So much for Jack keeping a level head, all it takes is a dumb, flirtatious kid bouncing on his lap for the blood to drain lower, even more so when Rhys turns around, facing away from him and effectively sitting his ass down atop the older man, the rocks and rolls of his body continuing, synced with the thrumming beat and the pounding of Jack’s heart. He wonders how far the kid will let him take it in the relative safety of the partially secluded VIP table, lights dimmed but for the occasional sweep of a stray limelight and people generally minding their own business, too far in their cups or too preoccupied otherwise to pay attention to the pair sat at the far end of the open space. Besides, it was no secret that Pandora dealt in more than just booze and music, Rhys’ outfit effectively making it easy to mistake him for the staff and Jack files away the question as to ‘why’ for later. Fingers dancing over exposed thighs dare to delve deeper, dipping under the hem of obscenely scant shorts and grazing along the crease where Rhys’ upper leg met his hip, prompting a stutter in the previously seamless movement. But it doesn’t deter the happily wiggling man, even though he comes to a brief halt for a little while, still seated on Jack’s lap and leaning his elbows against the table as their respective drinks arrive, the bartender clearly must have recognized his boss given that Rhys didn’t even need to say a word for a tall glass of something encompassing every single colour of the rainbow and topped with an umbrella to be placed before him. A few sips later and some pleased hums at the fingers tracing along the intricate design of his tattoos more, the kid leans back, relaxing slightly against his chest, keeping his movement slow and languid, lazy even, with one arm thrown back and over Jack’s shoulder to hold onto the back of his chair, the older man tucking his nose into the longer strands of slicked back hair at the nape of his neck, breathing in the unmistakable mix of expensive perfumes and sweat. 

“No gloves, no fucking capes, what’s your deal today guapo?” It’s easier to talk when you don’t need to yell over the blasting music, lips hovering mere inches away from a willing ear.

“You mean the arm? There’s no one here today I’d need to impress.” This little shit, with each passing conversation Jack keeps leaning more towards the idea that the first time he was here, the kid has completely played him, even more than he might have implied previously. “Besides, everyone’s just too shitfaced to pay attention.” There is a chuckle following his statement and it reverberates across Jack’s body, mirrored as his thumb brushes up to Rhys’ chin, tilting his head so their eyes can meet.

“So are you princess.”

“Mhm.” And true to Jack’s words, there is a degree of slurring to his words. Although calling him shitfaced might be insulting to the word itself as the kid seems to be way beyond that state by now. “Totally not a problem tho, ‘m not the boss tonight, just … a regular looking for some luck tonight, you know?” 

“Think you might have just found it?” He follows it with a bump of their noses, expression relaxed into something softer as the kid twists slightly, hand coming from behind Jack’s back to trace along the edge of his mask and lower to play with the material of the bowtie, sultry smile shot his way. But he should have known better than that and the next words have him growling and giving a tighter squeeze to the other’s hips, hopefully bruising it if he can manage.

“Iunno, might gonna need to head back into the thick of it and find out what else the night has in store for me.” It’s hard to tell what Rhys wants to achieve by egging him on, but Jack is having none of it, shoving the younger man off his lap and bouncing to his feet, dead set on making sure he would stay kid’s one and only catch for the night. There isn’t a single word or protest as he drags him towards the bathrooms, skipping the queue lining to one of the three doors, a flock of warbling chicks, clearly there for the sole purpose of passing around juicy gossips and he blasts the door, further down the corridor open. There is a row of stalls and a long mirror with sinks underneath on the opposite site, a single client scrambling to wipe away the white dust clinging to the upper part of his moustache. A thumb angrily jerked to point behind Jack’s back has him making a run for the door, chased by Rhys’ gleeful giggle, one which he finally gets to stifle when he slams the younger man against the wall of the nearest empty stall, door slowly swinging closed. Hands fisted into the front of the teal dress shirt, their lips crash, Jack’s insistent and demanding, Rhys’ more on a sluggish and lazy side and he pushes his knee between the other’s legs, pressed flush against the lithe body and rolling his hips in a mock imitation of the kid’s previous performance. 

The sweet little moans seeping from between Rhys’ reddened lips stop when a sound of someone entering the bathroom has them pulling away, two sets of eyes first fixing on the closed but not locked door of their stall before homing in on each other’s, Jack’s eyebrow tilting with an unspoken question or maybe a challenge and the only reply he gets is a tongue slowly running over Rhys’ front teeth. Neither makes a move to lock the door, sneakers squeaking against the tiles as he scrambles for some extra purchase, grinding harder and sinking his teeth into the junction between the other man’s neck and shoulder.

His new favourite toy is shameless and needy and Jack can’t keep his hands off of him as he sucks another mark into the skin of his throat, mirroring the tattoo on the opposite side.

“Convinced yet?” His words are a raspy growl and it takes all the power he has in him to create some distance between two burning bodies but at least he’s rewarded with a view that makes up for it more than enough. The dreamy, unfocused eyes, dishevelled hair and parted, swollen lips send a shot straight to his groin, something that blooms into even more heat, feedback travelling back up to drown out the muffled sounds of the music and the typical stench of sanitizers and piss of the bathroom as his world narrows down to the heaving chest, completely bare by now, given that the loose knot keeping the flaps of Rhys’ shirt together came undone and the slightly tented material of his shorts. He just has to wonder what kind of underwear the kid is sporting to keep his junk from sticking out from one or the other frayed leg of the shorts, if you could even call it a leg. 

“A little bit more please?” And so Jack eagerly gives him more, fingernails leaving reddened marks over the exposed skin of the flat of his stomach and he can’t really bring himself to give a single fuck about the hand fisted in his hair, messing up his undercut or the metal fingers clumsily bumping with his as Rhys tries to make a grab for the front of his trousers. He is only satisfied when the other man grows desperate enough to tug at his fly, fumbling with it with little grace and producing little frustrated whines. Jack thinks he did a good job here, the usually collected man now panting and turned into a complete mess, hardly presentable enough to get out there again. Pulling back is probably second hardest thing there, maybe third but he still manages, his goal achieved and he won’t stand for any more teasing that he can’t keep it in his pants, besides, a seedy toilet at a club, even high standard as this one, isn’t the ideal place for anything more than some light-hearted and maybe a little bit heavy-handed fooling around. His fingers slowly uncurl, letting go of a fistful of crumpled material and with a pleased smirk, Jack lazily stalks out of the stall, turning on the water and nonchalantly splashing some of it over his face to cool himself a fraction down. He can see the other man leaning heavily against the wall, propped with one elbow against the metal casing hiding a roll of toilet paper and struggling to retie the flaps of his shirt. Knot askew and collar patulent, Rhys finally makes it to the row of sinks on unsteady legs, one look into the mirror bringing a cross expression to his face.

“Asshole.” Fingers skim over the fine design of hickeys and scratches and Jack stands a little bit taller with the pride making his chest swell. 

“Well now you at least look the part.” A cocked eyebrow has him elaborate further, which in return earns him a weak shove and a petulant growl. “A cheap whore, heard Pandora made a name for itself with those. Have fun getting any luck tonight.”

“Anything but cheap!” Rhys sounds offended, pout making his lower lip jutt as he gives his best shot at bringing some sort of order to the deep brown strands sticking in every direction. “Man, I was really hoping to get laid tonight, thanks for ruining it for me.”

“The only ‘laid’ you’re getting tonight is laid to bed and sleeping it off chiquito.” He stifles a laugh at the outraged gasp, but they both know he’s right, too much alcohol coursing through their veins, it’s just that Rhys may be having troubles accepting that, all of the booze he has chugged by now finally catching up with his brain. “I’ll let you choose whose bed it’s going to be.”

-II-

Rhys ends up making the right choice, although that little quip about having fond memories of the last time he stayed at Jack’s place gets him a clip to his head and a warning not to try anything funny. He passes out in an instant, already drowsy on the ride home, slumped in the backseat and getting a little bit handsy as he tries fondling the man against whose shoulder he keeps leaning for support. However, he totally outdoes himself when Jack drops him onto the bed after wrestling him out of the majority of his skimpy clothing, falling asleep half sprawled over the older man’s chest, hand shoved down the front of his boxers and immediately starting to drool.

Jack on the other hand is left somewhat frustrated, standing at half attention, starfished on his bed and idly staring at the ceiling as he keeps absent mindedly carding his fingers through the sleeping boy’s hair. And that’s what it essentially boils down to, Rhys is still a child, twenty something and with a good poker face when the situation calls for it but a child nonetheless. However, it’s not the way the other man acts all demanding and cocky, as if the world, Jack’s world to be precises, hard, violent and unforgiving, was made for him but rather, how easy it is for Jack himself to fall into the childish, light-hearted games they play, that has him concerned. It’s not that he doesn’t give him the due credit, whatever has happened to him to end up crippled turning a boy into a man, and Rhys has proved to be a scheming, double crossing, sly fox on multiple occasions but Jack can’t shake off the feeling that he, and his little group of ‘friends’, the term making the older man scoff, just aren’t ready for the adult world. Sure they had him running blindly in circles in the beginning but he can see Rhys’ Atlas for what it is now, more dumb luck and bravado than actual forethought put into their actions. He rolls onto his side, arm slung over the sleeping man’s waist and nose tucked into the crown of his head. Jack hates losing things and he would hate for this little one to slip his hands if he got sloppy.

-II-

Jack wakes up to find an empty space at his side and a quick search around the room reveals the younger man sat at the foot of his bed, hair damp and almost naked but for a towel wrapped around his hips. His head is hanging low as he keeps fiddling with a lock located in the crook of his elbow, a switch presumably keeping the artificial forearm latched to the metal webbed into the skin of his arm. 

“You really sulking there or is it just hangover?” Jack moves to sit up, back propped against a stack of pillows. 

“Both I guess. Hate sleeping with this thing on.” The sentiment is shared because the metal has chaffed a raw spot just below his ribs, a deep, angry red line etched into his skin, slowly bouncing back but also itching like hell. He gives a little nudge with his foot to the sitting man, bringing the attention of brown and blue eyes back to himself.

“I know where you’re coming from.” Fingernails tap against the latch grafted into his chin, keeping the mask in place. “Take it off.”

There is hesitation in the way Rhys’ hand move as he eventually flicks the locks open, heavy metal dropping to the ground, soon joined by the off-colour faux skin set down on the bedside table. Jack takes a strangled breath, scratching at the stubble that has began building in the hollow of his cheeks and he lets the other man scale his face with curious eyes.

“That certainly explains the origin of your name.” Hell yeah it does, he knows he has a handsome mug, scar or not, although, as the kid shifts to plop himself closer, still at the edge of the bed, the hand coming up brush over the rarely touched skin has the muscles of his jaw twitching slightly. “So…” And now’s the time for the unwanted questions Jack was hoping to avoid but resigned himself to anyway. “...wanna make out about our insecurities and pretend it wasn’t hella awkward?” The relieved laughter bubbling in his chest brings tears to the corners of his eyes and Jack doesn’t need to be coaxed any further, wrapping his arm around the kid’s waist and dipping him down over his lap, toothy grin flashed before he enthusiastically gives into the inviting quirk of Rhys’ lips. 

They do indeed make out but it quickly spirals out of control as he finds himself with an armful of squirmy eagerness, thighs splayed either side of his hips and the towel long discarded. Rhys tastes of peppermint and Jack makes a mental note to decontaminate his toothbrush before using it himself, strangely put off by the idea of sharing it with someone this happy to shove less than sanitary things into his mouth. Not that he minds the same mouth slotting with his at the moment. His boxers end up tugged down and the raw contact of feverish skin against skin has him muttering curses under his breath, the kid, usually all elbows and knees in most situations, falls back into that smooth, languid roll of his body he tended to display, as Jack has recently learned, only on the dance floor and in bed. Last night has left both of them worn down, too hungover but also too pent up from the previous teasing for anything more refined than simple rutting, Jack’s hands splayed over the other’s hips and guiding him on each forward roll. With only three good arms between them, the older man’s preoccupied with greedily grasping at the supple flesh, it’s up to Rhys to take the matters into his hand and provide a little bit of extra friction. The heat grows, as do the intensity with which impatient teeth nip at his lower lip, making Jack want to reclaim his dominance and so he lurches forward, tipping them over and ending up with the other man pinned underneath him, fingers curling around his wrist to effectively render him unable to help in any way. He takes a second to admire his handiwork, bruises, day old and new one littering Rhys’ neck and chest bring a smirk to Jack’s lips, sharp canines uncovered with the curl of the corners of his mouth which in return sparks a more earnest reaction from the younger man, an impatient whine and an insistent arch of his body. 

“Don’t you love it guapo?” Jack lets the moment of uncertainty prolong but a knee crashing into his side and knocking the wind out of him also knocks the idea out of his head. Perhaps it’s not the right time and place for trying to test the limits of Rhys’ trust and willingness to let Jack take charge.

“Stop fucking around you asshole.” No arguing there as, when all's said and done, he still prefers simply fucking to fucking around, hips dipping lower to close the distance and they are back to frantically rubbing against each other. Teeth worrying at the abused skin of the kid’s throat bring out more of those stifled moans and murmured words of encouragement which, as the pace picks up turn into stuttered gasps, wrist flexing against his grip and the stump of his arm reaching to try and tug Jack closer. From there it’s a mad dash to the finish line and as damp heat splatters over Rhys’ front, the kid going rigid for a moment and biting down on his lower lip, the older man needs to slow down for a second to rearrange himself, still chasing his own release, momentarily distracted by the way brown and blue eyes turn glazed, pupils blown and long eyelashes fluttering. His nostrils flare with a long inhale, taking in the mix of Rhys’ own scent and Jack’s soap as he flops onto his back, hand working away intently at the hard flesh, eyes fixed on the groggily moving figure, now leaning over him, pressed to his side and accidentally smearing the sticky mess over his hip. If it’s not for the way the kid looks right now, face flushed, hair turned into a bird’s nest and still trying to catch his breath, then it has to be due to the curious fingers moving over Jack’s front, not interrupting the frantic up and down rhythm of his hand but rather adding to the sensation, skimming over the dip above his collarbones before dipping lower to tease at the sensitive skin between his legs. And if it’s for neither of those two, then it must be the appreciative, hungry stare sweeping over his body and fixing on his bare face. Regardless, it most probably is a mix of all three that finally has him tipping over the edge, breath stuttering and the muscles in his belly pulled taut, making his body curl forward. 

-II-

Defenses back in place, showered and redressed, Rhys donning one of Jack’s lousy shirts and a jacket, the borrowed sweatpants too short as always, they head for the Cupcake, the younger man insistent on grabbing some quality coffee this early in the morning. He has his yesterday’s clothing wrapped into a bundle and tucked under his arm, Jack finally remembering that he still needs to inquire about the origin of the outfit.

“So what’s up with you dressing up just like the staff at Pandora? Your way of checking if the customers are happy?”

“Wrong.” He’s receiving a crooked grin and a wink, and he knows that whatever will roll off of Rhys’ tongue next is going to make him cringe. “They all are dressed after me!” How… unsurprising but Jack would be lying if he said that this little, egocentric, spoiled brat wasn’t exactly what he wanted. Bad fashion choices or not.

“You’re fucked up guapo.”

“Look who’s talking.” There is a tongue poked at him and Jack shakes his head at the mildly insulting remark, stifling his own giggle.

It’s midday as they arrive, the strong, rich scent hitting Jack’s nose, a mixture of sweet and bitter and in all honesty, he was looking forward to trying some of their pastries from the day he so carelessly binned the box with a selection of their best that was offered to him. He was mad at that point, you can’t blame him but now it’s time to make up for it. There is a moment of surprised stillness as his eyes center on the two figures slumped by one of the tables, clearly nursing a headache and poking at their respective croissants with little apparent intent of eating. The unmistakable sheer fabric with a heart pattern is now totally wrinkled, glasses skewed and traces of the last night’s makeup smeared under one eye. Jack strutts closer to park his ass across the table but instantly grows to regret his decision as a hateful stare bores into him.

“Boss. You took the car and left me at the club last night.” He makes a half-hearted attempt at turning his expression even vaguely apologetic but fails.

“You could have gotten a cab? But I don’t see you particularly upset over needing to stay over at someone else’s place.” It did not escape his attention how closely Meg was sat to the other woman, Yvette giving him a hard stare as she moved her hand to pet through his right hand woman’s hair.

“Don’t listen to this douchebag honey.” Jack’s grin grows wider at the cup of coffee placed before him and he scuttles a little further down the bench he’s occupying to let Atlas’ boss take a seat next to him. “At least you won’t be the only one taking a walk of shame back home.” 

Rhys meets that with a knit of his raised eyebrows, lips puckered and head tilted in some fucked up attempt at looking innocent as he proudly pops the collar of Jack’s jacket. 

Jack runs his hands over his face wondering what he has gotten himself into this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so hey it's the end of this story more or less. I may have one more idea for these two jerks but im a little bit hesitant to write it. if you'd like to see some more one day, drop some encouraging words!


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